


I Think Your Pants Look Hot, Hey Barnes I Like You A Lot

by wildlyricalair



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-10-27 14:45:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10811133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildlyricalair/pseuds/wildlyricalair
Summary: Kate loves her job as an intern at Gloss, a very hip, very trendy fashion magazine. She loves working with her boss-slash-partner, the very talented, very awesome Clint Barton, photographer extraordinaire. And this week, she especially loves (slash hates) working with the model for this month's cover, the very handsome, very intense, surprisingly flirtatious James Barnes.Shamelessly fluffy, with no shortage of sass and banter. Based on a prompt I saw on tumblr a long time ago.





	1. Chapter 1

# 1

Shit. Shit shit shit. I’m so gonna be late. And for futz’s sake, Kate-ch-22, why did you choose today of all days to rock six-inch platforms?

Well, because they’re new. And super cute. But that’s not the point. The point is, the elevator doors are about to close in my face and I’m already late – “Wait! Wait please wait!” I stick my arm out just in time and the doors bounce off my wrist and slide open again. I step inside and punch the button for the 23rd floor, ignoring the disgruntled look of the two women who work for the law firm a few floors below us. Although why they’re upset I have no idea – they’re the ones who refused to hold the elevator for me, and now they’re stuck in here with me, the girl they didn’t think was gonna make it in. But I did. Suck it, bitches.

I run my fingers through my hair and try to simultaneously fluff it up and smooth it down as the elevator stops first at the 12th, then the 16th, and then the 21st floors, before finally dinging open onto my floor – or, more accurately, _Gloss_ ’s floor. I sprint out of the elevator – as much as I can in these damn heels – and stride into the office as casually as I can, with the rest of the intern pool catcalling and shouting, “Ohhhh! Last one in!”

Billy waltzes up to me and places a company card in my hand. “You know what this means, Kate.”

I scowl at him. “Seriously? I’m…” I glance at my phone. “A minute late. You’re telling me everyone else is here already?”

“Yep!” Cassie grins. “And, and and! James Barnes is gonna be here in fifteen minutes and you’re gonna miss him getting here because you’re on the coffee run!” Jesus. I love Cassie, she’s my best friend, but she insists on getting excited about every single even slightly-famous model, actor, musician, photographer, designer, or anyone else whose Instagram nets more than a couple thousand followers who struts through the lobby doors.

I roll my eyes at her and grouse, “First of all, who cares? He’s just a model like all the other ones who are in here all the time. Second, I work for the Hawk. He’s shooting Barnes, so even if I cared about missing him getting here, I’ll still be stuck in wardrobe with him all day today and out shooting all day tomorrow and the day after. So gimme the damn coffee order and I’ll be back in half an hour.”

 

* * *

 

 

Forty-five minutes later, I let myself into my boss’ office-slash-studio, carrying the final four coffees in the last of three drink carriers I had to balance all the way from the Starbucks on the first floor. “Morning, Boss Man.” Clint’s at his table, absorbed in his designs; even with his hearing aids he doesn’t always pick up on background noises like his assistant arriving with the coffee. No biggie. He’ll say hi whenever he gets around to looking up. “So I have a nonfat Vanilla Chai Latte for Jessica,” I hand the drink to Jess, one of the staff writers who happens to be writing the piece on Barnes that goes with this shoot, and turn to Clint, who’s slouching against his work table and paging through Jess’ piece, scribbling notes in the margins and occasionally referencing the illegibly-scribbled notes that he keeps in a tattered leather-bound notebook. “Straight black with three shots of espresso for Hawkeye.” Clint could care less what his coffee tastes like; he just needs the caffeine – he’s been known to drink the sludge he makes straight out of the pot in a pinch.

He glances up, mildly surprised to see a coffee cup appearing in his field of vision. “Thanks, Hawkeye,” he grabs at the cup and gulps down half of it in one go. “Nice skirt,” he jerks his chin at my waist, then immediately returns his attention to his notes.

I smooth my purple skirt down and grin to myself. Literally all I have to do for him to compliment me is wear purple. It never fails. Jess snorts. “Band tee and a pencil skirt. Very classy. Very mature. Kate, word of advice, dress for the job you want, not the job you have.”

I smile tightly at her. “Thanks, Jess. I’ll remember that.” I glance down at the drinks in my hand. “So anyways, I also have a Caramel Macchiato with three shots for Million Dollar Katie – oh wait, that’s me!” I set it on Clint’s table and hold up the last drink. “And then I have a black with two sugars, and I’m not sure who that’s for…”

“Two sugars is for Mr. Barnes, over there,” Jess purrs, and I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes – an effort Clint doesn’t even bother to make. She motions to the fourth presence in the room, a tall-ish guy who’s standing with his back to us, staring out the window.

I step up to him and clear my throat. He whips around to face me, and I rock back on my heels, caught a bit off guard by his gaze – as if he’d been one place and then suddenly been jerked into another, entirely against his will. “Sorry. I just. Coffee,” I stick my hand out, and he stares at me for a long moment, then mechanically extends his hand and takes the cup from me. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. In pictures, sure. Lighting, makeup, and Photoshop all working together to make him look good? I could be a model with the right crew. But in person? Jesus, those lips though. Full, bow-shaped, soft pink lips framed by a light shading of stubble and oh, I just want to reach out and touch them. I don’t, though. That’d be fucking weird. Don’t touch strangers’ lips, Kate. They don’t like that.

His eyes, soft and a little bit sad, are locked on mine, and for a brief moment I wonder if maybe he’s reading my thoughts? If you are, James Barnes, I promise not to actually reach out and touch your lips. I know that’s weird. As is taking precautions against mind readers. I’m fucking crazy.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, taking the coffee from me, moving so quickly and so smoothly that I almost don’t notice the cup slipping from my fingers, then turns back to the window, and I release a soft breath – apparently I was holding my breath? Get it together, Katie Marmalade, he’s just a model. You see models every damn day.

I move back to Clint’s desk and widen my eyes meaningfully at him; he raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. “So this is my concept,” he shoves a couple of sketches at me, smears of paint to denote the color schemes in his mind slap-dashed into the general areas he’s picturing them. “Barnes likes it. What do you think?”

I let out a low whistle as I study the sketches. “Clint, this is… This is pretty damn good. Really, _really_ good.”

Clint rears back, surprised. “Really?” He’s not used to me giving him positive feedback right away. I usually run through one or two sassy retorts before I tell him what I really think, but to be fair, this is a very unique brand of excellent that he very rarely achieves before I can even lay eyes on it. He keeps me around because I’m good, I have a good eye, and he says I make him better. Which I do. I don’t know how he got along before he had me, and I think he’s finally getting to the point where he doesn’t know, either. I’ll definitely have a real job by the end of the year, of that I’m sure.

I look up at Barnes, who’s still staring out the window, and nod. “Yeah. It’s perfect, Clint. I see it.” And I do. The best part is that I know I’m seeing what he saw when he came up with the concept, and he knows I’m seeing it, too. We’re in sync like that.

Clint nods, pleased. “Good. I need you to take him down to wardrobe and do your thing. Match the colors. You see what I want? Make it happen. Make sure everything fits, write down every piece we check out. You know the drill, girly girl. Get to it.”

I snap off a mock salute and step up to Barnes again, determined to keep my cool this time. “Mr. Barnes? Can you come with me? All we’re gonna do today is run you through your wardrobe for the shoot.”

He turns back to me and waits expectantly for me to lead the way, which I do, out of the studio and down the hall to the elevator, where I hit the down button and wait. “This shoot’s gonna kick ass,” I comment off-handedly, glancing up at Barnes.

He’s studying me, the dark bags underneath his eyes a lot more prominent in the brighter light of the hallway. “Is it?” He asks absently, mind clearly elsewhere.

I nod, feeling a little squirmy under his scrutiny. “Clint’s good on a bad day, really good on an average day, great on a good day, and this concept he has? It’s him on a great day.”

“So… fantastic?” he asks as the elevator doors slide open.

I stare at him for a second, then shake my head slightly and step into the elevator, punching the button for two floors down. “Yeah. Fantastic. Clint’s fantastic on a great day.”

“And on his best day?” he wants to know.

I chew on my lip for a moment, considering. “Legendary. Epic. Transcendent? Like any of those?”

“Transcendent. That’s a good word,” he grins briefly, then falls silent again. We move out of the elevator and I lead the way into the wardrobe department.

I manage to get the door halfway open before I have to shove, and I glance behind it to see the basket of recently-modeled pieces that’ll have to be dry-cleaned, thrown haphazardly halfway onto a pile of discarded stuff that the staff will get to pick through before the shitty stuff is passed down to the interns. I catch a glimpse of a purple sweater and make a mental note to snag it before Jessica can get her snotty hands on it. I push the door open as far as I can and allow Barnes to step past me into the room, then call, “Joss? I’m here with James Barnes. You have anything for us?”

Jocelyn appears, a flurry of motion and disorganization wrapped in a baggy sweater and leggings and topped off with a messy blonde bun. “Kate! Of course I do! Hi, Mr. Barnes,” she throws out a hand for him to shake and is off again, rifling through racks of clothes and pulling a couple to the forefront. “This is everything I have that’s in the right size already; I can pull some other things but I’ll need to see Clint’s concept so I can narrow it down. You have it?”

I raise my eyebrows at her. “I really don’t wear that many hats, hon. Assist Clint. Bring Joss the concept. Make sure everything matches and fits. Of course I brought you the concept.”

I hand over the sketches and Joss examines them, eyes widening as she pages through the drawings. “Wow. This is cool. And a little different than I was expecting. I’ll have to go dig…” she floats away and I begin rifling through the racks she’s already pointed out.

“You can have a seat, Mr. Barnes. Clint likes to fly by the seat of his pants, so this part usually takes a while because he never gets his sketches to wardrobe ahead of time. He says the spontaneity of whatever Joss and I come up with works better,” I explain, picking out a few items and hanging them on the end of the rack. “So what’s the deal with the arm? Where’d the one-arm thing come from?” I ask, folding up the sleeve of one coat so Joss can cut it off, as per Clint’s design.

Barnes tenses slightly, jaw working as he stares at the rack behind my head. “Had an accident a few years ago. Nearly lost my arm. It’s never been the same. It’s why I had to quit dancing and start modeling instead.” He mumbles something awful, this guy. I’ll have to remind him not to do that around Clint, if he wants to be heard.

Jocelyn reappears and dumps a pile of clothes onto her desk, which simultaneously sends a tall pile of embroidered patches sprawling all over the desk and onto the floor. I bend down and pick up a yellow lightning bolt with strands of gold worked through it, then toss it back onto the desk. “You need a box or something. Or twelve boxes? How do you ever find anything in here?”

“I have a system,” she replies, defensive, and I grin so she knows I’m teasing. “Anyways, I’ve pulled these out for Mr. Barnes to try. I assume you’ve got some pieces you’d like to see on him?”

I nod and motion for Barnes to take the clothes we’ve picked out into the dressing room. “It’s the ‘playing dress-up’ portion of the morning,” I joke, “And you’re our doll! Please, step behind door number one and show us what outfit number one looks like.”

Barnes looks as though he’s barely holding back a tired sigh, but he does as I’ve asked and steps into the dressing room. As we wait, my gaze floats to the rack behind Jocelyn and is caught by something shiny. “Joss. What is that?” She lolls her head to the side to follow the direction in which I’m moving, reaching, grabbing the shiny thing and staring at it with delight. “Joss. What _is_ this?”

She squirms a little in her seat. “Just… I dunno, I was trying something. Is it terrible?”

“Joss. I love it. I want it. For the shoot. Barnes. Put this on.” I shove the hanger into the hand of Barnes, who’s just stepped out of the dressing room in the first outfit. “Over…” I snatch a black turtleneck from a nearby stack and hand it to him. “This. No.” I yank it out of his hand and stick a black Henley into it instead. “Wait. This one.” I pull a black button-down shirt off a hanger and drape it over his wrist.

He gives me an exasperated look, and I chew on my lip, frowning. “Joss? Thoughts? What did you picture for it?”

She purses her lips. “I didn’t, really. I was just playing around. You really like it?”

I motion to Barnes. “Picture it on him, Joss.”

“This one,” a husky rumble of a voice shuts us both up and I glance at our model. He drops all the shirts I’ve handed him and picks up a different, olive green Henley. “I’ll wear this one under it.” He tugs his shirt off over his head (avert your eyes, Kate, you don’t need a clearer picture of that however-many pack he’s got stashed away under these ridiculously expensive designer clothes) and shrugs into the Henley, then pulls the jacket on over the shirt. I step forward and straighten the coat collar, then brush the wrinkles out of its shoulders.

Don’t look at his face, Kate Drogo. Definitely don’t look at his lips. Is he looking at me? I feel like maybe he’s staring at me. He’s so intense. Brooding. Breathing into my ear, a little bit. His breath is warm and oh God those lips are like, inches away, huh? Shit. Don’t look up. You don’t need to see exactly what shade of blue his eyes are, nor do you need to be in that close proximity to those lips. I give a tug at the single silver sleeve of the blazer, then step back and cast an appraising eye over him. “Well, shit. That’s a good look.” I exchange a wolfish grin with Joss, then turn back to Barnes and motion towards the full-length mirror. “So whadda ya think, Mr. Barnes?”

He mutters something so low I almost miss it.

“Hm?”

“Bucky. Not Mr. Barnes,” he repeats.

I raise my eyebrows. “Oh. Alright. Bucky. What do you think, Bucky? Oh, and just FYI, don’t mumble like that around Clint. He’ll miss 100% off what you say.”

“I think it’s good,” he nods. “It’s missing something, though.”

I screw my mouth over to one side and consider for a long moment, then nod. “Agreed. Joss, do you have a…” I glance around the room and click my tongue repeatedly until I see exactly what it is I’m looking for. “Can you… Here, pin this on here.” I pick the patch up and hold it above his bicep, and do not even briefly think about or wonder even slightly whether he’s flexing or if that’s just the natural state of his arms. Either way, it’s futzing hot and not at all appropriate to be thinking about right now. Joss steps forward and sticks a pin through the top of the red star, and I let go and let out a low whistle. “Striking. Can you attach that before we start shooting?”

Joss nods. “I sure can.”

“Perfect,” I grin. “Alright, that’s one down. If you wanna take those off and pass them to me, I can tag ‘em and set ‘em aside for tomorrow.”

Bucky nods and disappears back into the dressing room, re-emerging a few minutes later in another outfit we’d picked out and handing me the clothes he’s just changed out of. Joss hovers around him, straightening seams and sticking pins places, and as I tag each piece of the previous ensemble, I remark casually, “I saw you dance, you know. When I was in high school.   _La Bayader_. You were incredible. You and Natasha.”

“That’s when I was with the Moscow company,” Bucky nods. “ _La Bayader_ wasn’t even my best work. You should have seen my Romeo.”

I sink down in my seat a little and let out a wistful sigh. “God, I wish I could have. You didn’t tour Romeo and Juliet in America, though.”

“No. We didn’t,” he agrees. “We were in rehearsals to do it in New York when I got hurt. Pietro Maximoff performed it instead. Upjumped little shit,” he mutters under his breath.

I laugh and nod my agreement. “That’s what Clint says about him, too!”

“I dressed his sister once,” Joss pipes up, kneeling down to pin up the hems of Bucky’s pants. “Wanda. Maximoff. She’s lovely. Sweet. Kinda… flowy.”

“Ethereal,” I suggest, hopping to my feet to hang up the clothes on our rack. “But like, darkly ethereal.”  

Bucky chuckles. “You’re a regular thesaurus, Miss.”

“Kate. I’m Kate,” I say, turning back to him and walking a slow circle around him to inspect his outfit. “I don’t like that jacket. Take it off, please?”

He complies, and I snag another one from the rack and hand it to him; he takes it from me with a small smile and a, “Thanks, Kate.”

His eyes are a very light, slate-y blue.

Shitfuck. No. I was not gonna notice this stuff.

Ugh. It’s gonna be a long couple of days.

 

* * *

 

 

Three and a half hours later I’m headed back out to get lunch for myself, Bucky, Joss, and Clint. I’ve snagged the purple sweater from the discard pile and tied it around my waist. I’ll leave it in my car when I get back with lunch, and Jess will never even lay eyes on it until I’m wearing it in front of her. “So what’s he like?” Cassie appears out of nowhere, following me as I move down the hall with the lunch order clutched in my fist.

“Quiet. Super intense,” I reply, not even pausing as I make a beeline for the elevator. I missed breakfast and I’m _starving_. No, not starving. My mild hunger pains are nothing compared to children in the Sudan, I suppose. I’m still really hungry, though. “He doesn’t look, Cass, he stares. It freaks me out, a little.”

“But is he as gorgeous in person?” she asks, sounding hopeful.

I turn to her and sag back against the wall, covering my face with my hands as I whine, “Oh my ga-hawd he’s BEAUTIFUL. Even without makeup. Cassie, he’s got super-dark bags under his eyes and all this scruff and he’s still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Like, I don’t think he’s ever slept before in his life, and it just makes him look more tortured and sexy.”

Cassie squeals and grins excitedly at me. “Tell me everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “You’re this famous model and I am just an intern at this magazine. Why are you so shy I’m just giving you coffee”  
> I saw this prompt on tumblr a while ago and decided to play around with it with Bucky and Kate, and…. Well, it turned into a monster. I never meant for it to be half as long as it is. But man, it kinda wrote itself, and I’ve put the work in and now it’s up here. Please, please let me know what you think. And yeah, I obviously know nothing about fashion magazines or publishing or photography. I just wanted to play with the prompt. If there’s anything that so off that it totally takes you out of the story, then please, let me know so I can fix it. But otherwise, this is really just a (far too long) fluff piece about a pairing that I’m low-key obsessed with. More chapters forthcoming in the near future. Also, keep your eyes on this space, I’ve got another Kate-Bucky story in the works as well, I’m hoping I can get enough done on it that I can start posting it soon. If y’all are interested. In any case, leave reviews, I really really appreciate them. And thank you for reading!!
> 
> P.S. I can only apologize for the title, I know it's lame. I hate titling, but I love Hamilton! ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	2. Chapter 2

# 2

Don’t look at his eyes. Don’t look at his lips.

I repeat my mantra of the last seven and a half hours over and over in my head as I step up to adjust the neckline of the green army jacket and drape a set of dog tags around Bucky’s neck. Don’t look at his eyes. Don’t look at his lips. Don’t think about how close that mouth is to your mouth. You’re a strong, independent woman who is immune to proximity. I tuck the chain down into the back of the jacket – his neck is warm and soft and I am only taking note of that because Cassie will want a detailed catalogue of all the times my skin made contact with his skin – oops, that’s not a thing I need to think about – and take a desperate half step back, risking a quick glance at his face as I do so.

He’s staring at my feet. I glance down to see what it is he’s finding so interesting. I’m wearing strappy black lace-up platform heels, which might be a little edgy for the office except that I work at a fashion magazine. I guess he could maybe be judging my toenail polish (sparkly purple, obvs). “So what do you think? Does it take you back ten years in time?” Army, ballet, now a model. This motherfucker’s done it all.

“Closer to fifteen,” he mutters, not looking up from the floor. “Did you used to dance?”

“What?” I frown, confused.

“Ballet. Did you used to dance?” He lifts his head and locks his eyes with mine, and it takes me a long moment to even connect the words he’s saying with anything that makes even the remotest amount of sense in my brain with him staring at me like that, all intense and questioning.

“Um. I mean. Not since I was like, ten. You were in fatigues about the same time I was in tutus,” I reply, shrugging.

“Jesus, you’re young,” he shakes his head and runs an uncomfortable hand through his hair, stopping a bit short when he realizes he’s got most of it pulled back into a bun (man buns are all the rage right now, thanks in no small part to the man currently standing in front of me), although a few thick strands have escaped the leather tie and hang loosely in his eyes and around his face. “But you did a few years before you quit, right?”

He waits for me to reply and I have to fight back the urge to brush the loose strands out of his eyes so I can see his face better as I formulate my response. Good god. Why does everything about this man make me want to touch him? It’s unfair. I nod. “Yeah. I started when I was three, quit when I was eleven. How could you possibly tell that?”

“Your feet. You still point your toes outward when you stand.”

I snort and roll my eyes. “Well, eight years of Madame Dufresne smacking my ankles with a stick to make sure my toes were pointed straight out kinda stuck. I don’t know how you can stand like a normal person right now.”

Bucky chuckles, low and rumbly in his throat, and says, “I’ve been doing some martial arts lately. Trying to retrain my body to different styles and footwork. I’m mostly just impressed that you can keep your feet like that in those monstrosities.”

“Monstrosities?!” I squeak, indignant. “These are new and tres fashionable!”

“They’re also six inches tall,” he motions toward my feet.

I squint contemptuously at him, then arrange my feet and arms into first position, then second, third, fourth, and fifth, and finally sink into a deep plie with a graceful wave of my arms and a challenging look at the man in front of me. Suck on that, Mikhail Buck-ryshnikov. I hear a snort from behind me, where Joss is sitting at her table and sipping her green tea while putting the finishing touches on the hem of one pair of pants that Bucky will need for tomorrow. I ignore Joss and instead ask Bucky, “Not bad, huh?”

“Not bad…” he acknowledges, then reaches out and nudges my left knee back a smidge so it’s directly over my toes, then reaches up to tweak the angle of my right wrist just slightly. “Now it’s perfect. Just like it hasn’t been ten years since you last danced.”

“Merci, Monsieur Barnes,” I roll my eyes and choke out a laugh as he steps back, grinning softly. “Shut up and go try on that last outfit so we can go home already.”

He cocks his head to one side and shrugs off the jacket, handing it to me so I can tag it. “You got it, boss.”

He disappears back into the dressing room, and I move to perch on the edge of Joss’ desk, chewing on my lip to fight a smile. “He’s a lot more fun when he’s got some food in him,” I note, stringing a tag through the top buttonhole of the jacket and sticking it onto an empty hanger on the rack.

Joss sniffs. “Yeah, that’s why he’s in such a good mood. Lunch four hours ago.”

Before I can even begin to formulate a response to her very obvious sarcasm, Bucky’s emerged from the dressing room in a white tank top, black leather jacket, and ratty blue jeans. I let out a low whistle and grin at him. “Very sexy, Sergeant Barnes. You like?”

“I do now,” he smirks, the corners of his lips curling up sinfully and my stomach gives a little flip like I might be sick and GOD I have to stop looking at him now.

“Uh.” I glance back at Joss. “Joss?”

“Hot,” she agrees.

I sit up and clap my hands together. “And it looks like everything fits, so I think we’re good to get out of here. Go ahead and get back into your civvies, and I’ll tag all that stuff for us, and then we can get out of Joss’ hair.”

Bucky nods and disappears again, and when he reappears a minute later, he’s back in his own clothes and handing me the last outfit he’d just changed out of.

“Thanks. You’re good to go for today, if you wanna take off. We’ll send a car for you at seven tomorrow morning,” I smile, reaching for three more tags, which I attach to the items as I talk, then stick hangers into each piece and shove them all onto the overflowing rack. “I’ll walk you out.”

Bucky nods and falls into place half a step behind me as I turn and blow a kiss at Joss. “Night, Joss. Thanks for everything, you beautiful, naïve, sophisticated land mermaid.”

“Love you, Babe,” she waves distractedly, already in her little Joss world of clothes and alterations and whatever the other fifty things are that are bouncing around in her brain all the time.

I chuckle and shake my head at Bucky, who’s pulled the door open and is waiting expectantly for me to step through it, which I do, my handsome shadow close on my heels. He stretches as we’re waiting for the elevator, and fuck if he isn’t more graceful stretching than I ever was dancing. “God, I’d forgotten how much I hate this part of it. Trying on a million things, people staring at you and clicking their tongues and taking notes and sticking pins everywhere. Awful.”

I laugh. “I can only imagine. I’d much rather be a tongue clicker than have tongues clicked at me, I gotta say. But tomorrow’s the fun part.”

He groans and shakes his head. “Standing in weird, unnatural positions, plowing through a dozen different outfits, people shouting directions at you and no place to go to be alone? It’s hell.”

“You were a ballet dancer,” I giggle incredulously, but furrow my brows and look up at him. “And also if you hate all of it so much, why are you a model?”

“Everyone’s gotta do something,” he shrugs. “Can’t dance anymore, can’t go back to the army. I gotta find something to support myself with. I just try to be selective about who I work with.”

“Smart,” I nod. The elevator dings open, and we step inside, both of us sagging a little tiredly against the railings. After a long moment, I ask, “So why Clint? If you’re so selective, I mean.”

Barnes shrugs. “Natasha trusts him. Implicitly. And Steve… Steve respects him. And… he knows, you know? What it’s like. This job. He’s done it. He sees both sides of it.”

“That he does,” I agree. “He sees everything, that guy. It’s kind of amazing. You’re gonna love working with him. And hate it.” He cocks an eyebrow at me, and I wave a hand dismissively. “You’ll see.” The elevator doors slide open and we step out into the lobby.

He chuckles and turns to face me, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Don’t look at his eyes. “I guess I will. So I’ll see you at seven tomorrow morning, then?” Don’t look at his lips.

“Hell no,” I shake my head, keeping my eyes fixed on the wall just past his head. “I’ll see you at seven thirty when you come in for hair and makeup. I’m Clint’s assistant – at seven I’ll be on site, making sure he has coffee and going over all the last-minute shit.”

“Ah, right. Well I’ll see you at seven thirty, then.” His lips curl up into that smile again, and dammit, I try to be polite, look at him while he’s speaking and he just drops that shit on me out of nowhere, makes it all hard to take a proper fucking breath. What an asshole.

“Yeah. See you at seven thirty in makeup. Get some rest, there’s only so much concealer can do to hide exhaustion. And don’t shave; if Clint wants you clean-shaven we can do that in makeup. I have a feeling he’ll at least try having you look a little rough, see how that looks.”

“Will do, ma’am. You have a good night.” he reaches out and gives my arm a little pat, then steps past me and outside to where a sleek black SUV is waiting to take him back to his hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terrible at remembering to post chapters regularly, so I'll just post a couple right now, and get myself pretty much caught up to where I meant to be by now. Many thanks to all of you who read this, and please, please please leave comments and reviews. I love them so much. Thank you!!


	3. Chapter 3

# 3

“How was he yesterday?” Clint wants to know, yawning as he downs his third cup of coffee for the morning and stretches his arms above his head, revealing a slice of stomach between his jeans and the hem of his black t-shirt. Clint never dresses up when he’s shooting; he can’t even be bothered to wear shoes when he’s got a camera in his hands. Part of my job is to keep an eye out for any sharp objects that he might step on, and also to keep Band-Aids on hand just in case I miss something.

I tear off a piece of my blueberry muffin and shove it into my mouth as I consider my response. “He’s very intense. Kinda broody. But he’s pretty, Clint. You could cover him in dirt and shave half of his hair off and he’d still give you one hell of a shoot. It’s gonna be great.”

He settles down at his table and begins inspecting each of his cameras and lenses, one at a time. “Great. Maybe we’ll do that at the end of tomorrow. You double-checked that we have everything we need for today? All the clothes, all the props?”

“It’s all there.”

He nods. “Great. Oh. I forgot to bring food for Lucky – “

“I bought a bag last night. It’s in my car. And I brought the extra bowls, and I know there’s a case of water in the hair and makeup trailer,” I kneel down and reach into my pocket, producing a treat and feeding it to the slobbery yellow lab lazing on the floor at Clint’s feet. “I’d never let Lucky go hungry, would I? No, I wouldn’t,” I give his side a rub and a pat and grin as his tail begins to thump up and down on the ground.

Clint glances up and flashes me a brief grin. “You’re perfect, Katie-Kate. I ever tell you that before?”

I shrug. “Once or twice. But don’t worry. I’ll only let it go to my head a little bit.”

He turns his attention back to the lens in his hand. “Oh good. Barnes here yet?”

I glance at the clock and get to my feet. Clint’s blindly feeling around for something, so I reach out and pass him the bottle of glass cleaner and cleaning cloth he’s searching for. “Yeah. Car picked him up at seven. He oughta be in hair and makeup by now. Want me to go check in?”

“Yeah. Go do your thing with him. Make sure he’s in a good mood. Nat says he can get a little surly sometimes. Steve says he’s just been through a lot. Whatever it is, keep him happy. I can’t do any inspirational pep-talks like that Maximoff girl needed until at least lunch time.”

I cock an eyebrow. “’I can’t do my job and babysit? You wanna mope, go to high school? It’s time to get off your ass?’ That’s your idea of an inspirational pep talk?”

He snorts, feigning offense. “It worked, didn’t it? Now go, get outta here, Hawkeye. See if Barnes needs coffee or anything.”

I’m halfway out the door as I call over my shoulder, “I sent the coffee with the car!”

I cross from Clint’s trailer to the hair and makeup trailer. Bucky’s there, looking just as intense and tortured and exhausted as yesterday, but he manages half of a grin and a wave of his hand as he spots me around Cherry (the very cool, very sexy makeup artist, and Clint’s current squeeze). “Morning, Bucky. How ya doing?”

“Doin’ fine. Thanks for the coffee,” he smiles, and I find that it’s probably safer for me to be staring at Cherry’s ass than Bucky’s smile, so I do just that.

“Hey, just doin’ my job,” I smile. “How’s it going, Cherry?”

“He’s so handsome, he makes my job easy,” Cherry flashes Bucky a flirtatious grin and swipes her thumb under his right eye. “But he looks so tired. Does Clint want him looking fresh, or are the bags part of the look?”

Bucky’s brows draw downwards into a deep vee, and he frowns at Cherry, affronted. I lean forward and examine Bucky’s face closely, clenching my fists to keep from reaching out to touch his face. God, what the hell is this man doing to me? Shit. I focus on taking in his face as a collective whole, objectively, through Clint’s eyes, rather than my own.  It’s a little helpful, at least. I straighten and say, “Aw, they ain’t bags, Cher. They’re shadows, and I think they add a little character. But hey, what do you think, Buck? Cover ‘em up, or no?”

He shrugs. “I’ll defer to your judgement.”

“Oh, bless. I say keep the makeup light. We don’t want him to look totally perfect and model-y. Besides, you know what Tony Stark says about a man without a dark side.”

“Can’t trust ‘em,” Bucky mutters under his breath.

“You can’t. Trust ‘em. Thank you, Bucky,” I hold out my fist, which, after a moment’s hesitation, Bucky bumps his own fist against.

Cherry heaves a sigh. “So. No concealer, then?”

“No concealer,” I shake my head emphatically.

“Jessica’s gonna have something to say about that,” Cherry frowns. “You know she likes pretty pictures for her stories.”

“Yeah, well, Jess can suck —“ I glance at Bucky and trail off. Probably best not to talk about the staff writers too disrespectfully in front of people who we might want to like, come back and do more interviews and shoots with us in the future. Or whatever. “Onnnn a popsicle.” Cherry giggles.  I clear my throat and pretend I don’t see the corners of Bucky’s mouth twitch upward. “Jess isn’t doing the shoot. Jess’ job was to do the interview, write the piece. She’s done now. It’s all Clint from here on out. And Clint’s concept works best if we’re just seeing Bucky, the way he is. No hiding anything. That’s not the point, you know?”

“Sure. No concealer. Whatever you say, Kate.” She didn’t even listen to half of what I said, instead going back to patting makeup onto Bucky’s face and chewing loudly on her gum.

I roll my eyes at her ass and add, “And if Jess doesn’t think Clint’s pictures are gonna be pretty, especially with Bucky Freaking Barnes in ‘em, then she’s gonna need to get her eyes checked.”

“Mmhmm,” Cherry pops her gum but otherwise makes no response, and after a couple more minutes she straightens and flashes another flirtatious smile at Bucky, who gives her a tight smile in return. “There. You’re all finished, gorgeous. You dressing him, Kate?”

“Oh, he’s a big boy, I think he can dress himself,” I tease, glancing at Bucky, who purses his lips and heaves a sigh. I stick my tongue out from between my teeth and grin back at him. I move to the clothes rack sitting beside the makeup counter and pull the first group of hangers off of it. “This is what we’re starting with. If you wanna step into the back room there and get changed, we can head on out and get started.”

I hold out the clothes, which Bucky takes from me and disappears into the back to change. Cherry turns to me, smacking her gum. “So does Clint always get all, like, quiet and distracted when he’s working on a shoot? He hasn’t texted me back in like, three days.”

“Oh, yeah. He hasn’t actually looked at me in a week, I don’t think. And I see him every day,” I shrug. “Sometimes he takes his hearing aids out when he’s really focusing so he can’t get distracted. Once he gets the proofs in he’ll be back to his regular old wiseass self. And hey,” I nudge her arm. “Flirting with Barnes isn’t the answer – Clint won’t even notice.”

“Gee, thanks,” she rolls her eyes and gives a particularly loud pop of her gum. “Barnes hasn’t noticed I’m flirting with him, either. Maybe I’m losing my touch. Do I look gross today or something? Anything stuck in my teeth?”

I press my lips into a flat line and give her a disdainful stare. “Cherry. Shut the fuck up. You know damn well you look totally hot today, just like always. Trust me, it’s not you. Clint’s just in the zone, and if you give him a couple more days he’ll be calling you like nothing ever even happened. He won’t even have any idea how zoned out he’s been for the last few days, and if you try to call him on it, he’ll just think you’re being overly sensitive and probably call you even less cuz he’s got that commitment-phobia thing.”

Cherry lets out a frustrated grunt. “I always pick these guys. Why do I always pick these trainwreck guys?”

I reach over and pat her on the back. “I really don’t know, Cher. Good luck sorting that out.”

She levels a glare at me and deadpans, “You’re so helpful. What would I do without you?”

I beam at her. “Beats me, babe.”  

We fall silent for a second, and then after a moment, Cherry says, “You know, that guy didn’t crack even half of a smile until you showed up in here, girl.”

I shrug. “He doesn’t strike me as a morning person. He probably just needed some time to wake up.”

“He wouldn’t talk to me, either. Just like, one-word answers for the first half hour, and then you walk in and he’s all, ‘Hey, Kate, how’s it going? Thanks for the coffee. Look at my perfect model smile’.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Do you have a point?”

She glances up at the roof of the trailer, and pops her gum again. “Not really. Just… saying. He’s gorgeous, Kate. And he seems to actually kinda like you.”

I may throw up. Alternatively, if I can’t stop the heat from flaring up into my cheeks, I may just die and save myself the embarrassment. “Yeah, well, everyone actually kinda likes me. I’m a very actually kinda likeable person.”

She smacks my arm. “Just admit you like him!”

I smack her back and open my mouth to inform her that she’s wrong, that the thought hasn’t even crossed my mind, that I haven’t even noticed that he’s got the gorgeous sad, steel-blue eyes or the way his mouth curls up into that absolutely devastating smile when he thinks something’s funny, or the fact that his hair won’t stay within the confines of the leather band he uses to tie it back and falls around his face and into his eyes, but I stop myself from saying any of that crazy shit and instead say, “First of all, shut up! He’s literally a dozen feet away from us. Second of all, I think he’s pretty. Just as any sane person does.” I pause for a moment, and as Cherry continues to look at me expectantly, I add, “Like, really pretty. So pretty. His lips should be illegal, actually. SHUT UP.” I put a hand over my eyes and rub tiredly at my temples, heaving a sigh of defeat. “I have to keep stopping myself from touching his face. How fucking weird is that?”

“Not weird,” she grins triumphantly. “You’re just super into him, as you should be. But ohmygod if you get a chance to jump in bed with him, DO NOT turn it down,” she bites her lip and leans over to nudge me with her shoulder. “And then tell me everything.”

My jaw falls slack and I stare at her for a moment. “What – would you – I just – how – don’t even – Oh my god, Cherry. I resent that implication.”

“Which one, the implication that you would sleep with him, or the implication that you wouldn’t?”

“Wha – a – th – both!” I snap indignantly, and Cherry dissolves into laughter. “Shut up,” I snap again. “You’re the dumbest.”

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Stop projecting.”

“Hey! Of the two of us, which is the one that’s sleeping with Clint?”

She laughs. “You may have me there, but to be fair, if you’d slept with him you’d wanna keep doing it, too.”

“Gahhhh,” I shake my head forcefully at that. Thankfully, at that moment Bucky steps out in his first outfit of the day, saving me from having to expend too much brain power thinking about how Clint might be in bed and I grin and waggle my eyebrows at him. “Hot damn, that’s a good-looking guy! You know, you should be a model, man. Has anyone ever told you that?”

He chuckles self-consciously. “Maybe once or twice, but I never take ‘em seriously.”

“Well you should reconsider,” I hop to my feet and motion to the door. “In fact, if you wanna step this way, you’ll find a man waiting with a camera and you’ll be able to give it a shot, see how you like it as a career path.”

He stops, pretending to think it over, then shrugs. “Might as well. I’m already dressed.”

I laugh and push the door open. “Great. Right this way, Sir.”


	4. Chapter 4

# 4

The shoot’s going well; we’re on schedule, Bucky’s worked through four of the looks we’d put together for him, Lucky’s behaving and hasn’t escaped from his leash yet, and Clint hasn’t stepped on anything that’s drawn blood. All in all, things really couldn’t be going much smoother. I got the lunch order forty-five minutes ago and am pulling into the parking lot just as my phone beeps with a message from Clint asking where I am with the food. _Here,_ I text back quickly, turning off the engine and giving a quick honk of the horn as I climb out so people will know to come get their food.

My phone beeps. _Good. Barnes getting cranky. Better get food into him quick._

I chuckle and grab the drink carrier and bags with my food, Clint’s, and Bucky’s, then motion to the trunk as the first of the crew reaches me. “It’s all in the trunk, which is open, so just get in there and grab what you want.” He claps a grateful hand onto my shoulder and steps past me, hauling the trunk lid open and rooting through the food to find what he wants.

I toss Clint his bag of food with a couple of burgers and some fries and hand him his soda, then move to Bucky and hold out the bag with his food in it. “I’ve got a Classic Double Cheeseburger and fries for you, sir, and a chocolate milkshake.”

“Thank you,” he takes the food from me and motions to shady spot beneath a tree a few yards away in the grass. “Would you like to join me for lunch?”

“That sounds lovely,” I grin, and follow him over to the tree, gracefully (as one can be in jeans and Converse) sinking to the ground and taking a sip of my tea. “So? I think it’s going really well. Everything looks fantastic so far.”

“Great,” he nods, settling to the grass beside me. “So, how’d you get into this stuff? Working at the magazine and stuff.”

I shrug. “Wasn’t very good at ballet.” He chuckles, but shakes his head and watches me expectantly. I heave a sigh. “Um, I really like journalism stuff, and photojournalism has always been really interesting to me. I took the internship here just because I wanted to work with Clint and because it’s a publication my dad doesn’t own and I want to make it without his name all hanging over my head. But as it turns out, I actually really fucking love fashion photography and I really really love working with Clint and I could definitely see myself doing this as a career, or at least for a few years before I give journalism another shot.”

He nods. “Makes sense. I’ve heard nothing but great things about Barton.”

“He’s the best at what he does. And he was a hell of a model before he got on the other side of the camera. That’s how he put himself through college, you know.”

“Mmhmm. So what made you wanna work with him? Was there a specific shoot?”

I chew on my lip a bit. “As a model? Or a photographer?”

He shrugs. “Either. Both. Whatever it was about him that caught your attention.”

I take only a second to think before I respond, “That Avenging Angels series he was a part of… Phil Coulson’s? That was the shoot. With Natasha and Clint, Rogers, Banner, Stark, and Thor. I saw him and there was something in his eyes… I just wanted to know who he was. Looked him up, started keeping tabs on his career. I was worried when he dropped off on modeling to focus on being the one to take the pictures, but…” He’s paying rapt attention to my words, watching me so carefully as I’m talking, I’d almost feel a little self-conscious, if he didn’t also look so damn invested in what I have to say. No one listens to me talk like this. This shoot cannot end soon enough if I’m gonna get through it with my sanity. I shake my head. “But the one he did of Natasha, with the spiders. That was the one that really sold me on him as an artist in his own right.”

“The Black Widow shoot? Yeah. That one was iconic,” he agrees, through a bite of burger. He glances at me. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m asking you all these questions and not giving you a chance to eat. You’ve been here as long as I have, you must be starving. Go ahead, eat. I’ll shut up.”

I shrug. “I don’t mind,” but I take a big bite of my food nonetheless, and we both fall silent as we eat. Once I finish eating, I crumple up my trash and set it aside, stretching out on the grass and sighing as the sun warms my shoulders. As Bucky finishes eating, I begin picking daisies and threading them together into a chain as Bucky finishes his burger and watches. “How do you do that?” He asks, crumpling up the wrapper and tossing it back into the bag.

I glance up at him. “Make daisy chains?”

He nods, and my eyebrows furrow slightly before I shrug and lean in to show him. It’s a simple enough thing to pick up, and he plucks a few daisies from around him and begins a chain of his own. I find myself watching him as he works, slightly amazed at how deft his fingers are – even the nerve-damaged ones; if Clint tried to do this he’d rip the stems off before he’d got three of them together, and both of his hands are perfectly functional. “So… What do you do with it, when it’s done? What’s it for?”

I give a soft chuckle and take it from him. “You can finish the circle and then wear it on your head. I think it’d be a good look for you.” I hold the chain out and show him how to turn it into a circlet, then reach up and place it on top of his head. “Aw, see? So cute. We should see if Clint likes it for the shoot.”

He shakes his head, grinning, and pulls the crown off his own head and drops it onto my own, smoothing my hair down beneath it. I don’t know why it surprises me how gentle his hands are; he’s a dancer, and I’ve been marveling over how graceful he is for the past couple of days. “It looks much better on you.” He glances up at the crew eating their lunch a few yards away and then back down at me. “Don’t look now, but Barton’s taking pictures of us.”

I nod. “I know. He always does that. He loves candids. He does these planned, organized, photoshoot deals because it pays the bills, but he really prefers more spontaneous, organic, movement-oriented stuff. He says there’s life in those shots, skill in the posed, and beauty in both.”

“He’s surprisingly philosophical, that Barton.”

I laugh. “Seriously. He really doesn’t have the look of a philosopher, but he’s a goddamn genius.”

“Does he shoot you a lot?” Bucky asks, playing idly with one of the leftover flowers.

I shrug. “Eh. Mostly just as practice or like, research.” Bucky looks a bit puzzled at that, so I continue, “He makes me pose a lot while he dicks around with lighting and fans and stuff. He’s really into action shots and stuff, like I said, so sometimes he’ll set me up with a punching bag or a yoga mat or a bow or something and then move lights and cameras and gear all around me while he just snaps pictures and yells directions at me.”

Bucky chuckles. “So you model, too.”

“I – “ I pause. “No. I mean. No one’s ever gonna see those shots. Clint just uses them to test different equipment and ideas and such. They’re not for public consumption.”

“Bow? As in, and arrow? You do archery?”

“I dabble,” I shrug. “I dabble in lots of stuff. Archery is one of those things.”

“What else?” he wants to know, reaching out to drop the flower into my hand. “What else do you dabble in?”

I shake my head, twisting the flower stem between my fingers. “I don’t know. Um. I do yoga. And I work out at an MMA gym a few times a week. Used to play cello. I play around with fashion and design, a little. I do a little writing. Keep a blog. Clint lets me play around with my camera in his studio sometimes. I – what?” He’s staring at me intently, and fuck if those eyes aren’t boring a hole in me straight down to my soul. Ew. That was corny.

He lets out a half-chuckle and shakes his head. “Nothing. You’re a busy girl. And what do you do for fun? I mean, you live in New York City. You must find fun things to do.”

I nod. “Of course. We go out drinking, dancing. Sometimes we go to shows. I enter the Hamilton lottery like, every week. Haven’t won yet, but hey, if I ever get a real job I’ll just pay the thousand bucks or whatever tickets are up to by now, and go two years from now when it’s not sold out anymore.”

Bucky chuckles. “I’ve heard about Hamilton. Supposed to be pretty good, yeah?”

I stare at him for a moment. “Um. Yeah. It’s fantastic. I’ve listened to the album about a million times and it _still_ makes me cry.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “A million times?”

Whoops. “Um. Yeah. I can like. Sing it all the way through, probably.”

He doesn’t bother stifling his laugh. “Wow. I’d pay to see that.”

I snort. “You couldn’t afford me.”

“You can’t actually do it, can you?” He’s teasing, eyes dancing and I have to make a concerted effort not to sigh out loud at how just… fucking lovely he is when he smiles.

I snap my attention back to the conversation, focusing on the daisy in my hand rather than Bucky’s face and biting back a stupid grin. “You’re trying to bait me into rapping for you, aren’t you?”

He flashes me a mischievous grin. “Is it working?”

I purse my lips and shake my head resolutely. “Absolutely not. I’m not a performing monkey. And I don’t wanna ruin Hamilton for you.”

“You wouldn’t. You’re a woman of many talents, it seems,” he leans forward, and I risk a glance, just in time to see a lock of hair fall loose from behind his ear. My hand twitches; I want so desperately to push it back out of his face but instead I just drop my gaze back to the flower as he speaks. “Sort of a model. PA-extraordinaire. Cello, ballet, archery, martial arts, daisy chains, rap. I’m starting to feel a little intimidated.”

I fix him with my fiercest glare. “Don’t fucking patronize me. You’re like, a professional model-slash-ballet dancer-slash-martial-artist-slash-veteran. I know I haven’t done anything important yet, but keep your eyes on this space. People are gonna know who I am, and not just because of my dad.”

“I believe that.” His voice is so calm, so matter-of-fact. I think he actually means it. He’s not done though. “I wasn’t trying to patronize you. I meant it. You’re amazing, and you’re still young. You’ll blow us all away someday,” he smiles.

My eyes snap to his. “Is – was that – did you just quote – “

 _Mm, watcha say_  
Ooh that you only meant well  
Well of course you did – 

I glance down at my pocket and pull out my phone, grateful for the interruption. He’s sitting far too close for comfort and I desperately need to move away from him before I do something stupid. “It’s Clint. Hold on a sec. Yeah?” I lift the phone to my ear.

“You guys done eating-slash-flirting? I need Barnes dressed and ready to go in ten.”

“Got it. I’ll send him to get dressed now.”

I hang up and see Bucky staring at me, eyebrows raised in amusement. “That’s your ringtone for Barton?”

I shrug. “He’s a human tragedy. It seemed fitting. You gotta go get changed and see Cherry for touch-ups.” I reach up to tuck the daisy behind Bucky’s ear with a smirk. He gets to his feet, reaching for the wrapper from his burger. I wave him off. “Leave your trash, I’ll take care of it. You gotta go, Clint wants you in ten.”

“Yes ma’am. I’ll have to have you do Hamilton for me later,” he turns to go, obscuring his stupid shit-eating grin behind a curtain of dark hair.

I throw our trash away and wander over to Clint, who fixes me with a knowing stare over his nose. I glare back at him. “Shut up. Did you get anything good?” I motion to his camera. “I’m guessing Bucky didn’t agree to candids when he signed on for this shoot.”

He rolls his eyes at me. “’Bucky’ won’t care as long as you keep flashing those big baby blues at him, Katie-Kate.”

Heat rises in my face and I stare at him, willing my face not to be as red as it feels. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I say primly, after a long moment.

“It’s fine, Katie-Kate. Nat says he’s a good guy, probably better than that blonde dancer guy you were into before. The foreign one, really liked eighties music? Anyways, you guys are cute. Look,” he holds out his camera, presumably to show me some of the pictures he took of us a few minutes ago.

I shake my head. “No, you know I hate pictures of myself.” Also definitely don’t need those images in my head. Bucky’s taking up enough of my brain space as it is.

“You’re an idiot,” Clint shakes his head. “Whatever. You gotta keep him happy, though. Hill wants him at the anniversary party, so we gotta make sure he leaves in a good mood. The bike’s ready to go?”

I nod. “Of course. I had Dirk park it where you said.”

“Great.” He glances up and jerks his chin. “Barnes is headed this way. Let’s go.” He raises his camera as though it’s a gun, so the lens faces the sky and clicks his tongue to feign cocking it.

I grin, laugh, roll my eyes. “Let’s roll, Hawkeye.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading - sorry I'm so terribly inconsistent about updates! Please leave feedback, it means alot!


	5. Chapter 5

# 5

“You know he sleeps with everyone he shoots,” I inform Bucky during a break in shooting the next day.

Bucky gawps down at me, startled. “What?”

“Clint. Jumps right in bed with everyone he shoots. Just a heads-up for you,” I grin, to make sure he knows I’m teasing. Kind of. Clint does have a pretty undeniable track record of sleeping with his models – fellow models, too, when he’s in front of the camera, which he still does from time to time.

Bucky clears his throat softly, hesitating for a moment, then asks, “He shoots you, doesn’t he?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Yeah, but he also makes me make him coffee and bring him lunch and throws shit at me when I’m not paying close enough attention to him, and if you think I’m about to let that question follow to its natural conclusion then you’ve got another think coming, pal.”

“Pal? Pal?” He chuckles and shakes his head. “That name only means good things, right?” There’s another pause, and he presses, “So, that’s a ‘no,’ then. You’re the exception to the rule?”

I shrug. “So it would seem. Although if I’m the exception, then you’d better start preparing yourself. I hear he’s pretty good in the sack.”

Bucky laughs. “Well, that’s a relief. If I’ve gotta prove a rule then at least it’ll be a pleasant experience for me.”

“Aw, don’t sell yourself short,” I smack him lightly on the arm. “I’m sure he’ll have a nice time, too.”

“Nice? Jesus, you don’t think much of me, do you?”

The laugh that bursts out of my throat is only slightly unhinged. I know he’s teasing, but good god. I think of him entirely too much. And probably entirely too highly. There’s no way this guy is as god-like as my subconscious seems to think his face would imply. Like, as if those eyes and those lips somehow directly correlate to how good of a person he is. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I bruise your delicate ego? He’d have a fantastic time. Phenomenal. Incredible. Mind-blowing. Pick your adjective, Sarge.”

“What was it you said the other day? Legendary. Epic. Transcendent?”

My eyebrows shoot up in my forehead. “Damn, son. I see why you took ‘nice’ as an insult.” I chuckle. “Transcendent. Wow. Well mark me down as somewhat curious and only slightly jealous that Clint gets to be the one to experience the _legend_ that is Bucky Barnes.” God. Dammit. Those were not images I needed in my head. Not a thing I need to be thinking about.

He’s leaning a little closer now, a sexy little grin tugging at one corner of his mouth as he holds my eyes with his own, which is a thing he’s doing more and more lately and is totally unfair and making it very, very hard for me to breathe properly, much less form a coherent thought. “What is it you’re curious about? Anything I can help clear up for you?”

“Uh, no,” I shake my head emphatically. “That will not be necessary. It is hard enough to concentrate on work around you as it is.” He looks briefly startled, but then his seductive little half-grin spreads slowly into a rather smug smile and – FUCK OH FUCK did I seriously say that out loud? How am I in this conversation right now? Danger, Kate Robinson! Get out get out getoutgetoutgetout. “Uh – ha!” I chuckle and can’t seem to turn my big, stupid, incredulous grin into anything remotely businesslike. “Aaayyyyyyeeeeee, I gotta  go see how Clint’s doing. Be right back.”

I back away for a couple of steps, then turn and practically sprint to Clint’s side. “Tell me you have something for me to do that does not involve keeping– “

“Just keep Barnes happy,” Clint waves me off. “He’s dressed in the right outfit for this set?”

“Yep,” I nod, gritting my teeth. “He’s good to go.”

“Great. Just keep him fresh and in a good mood. Should only be a couple more minutes. Whatever you’re doing now is working, just keep doing it. Just don’t sleep with him until we’re done for the night, yeah?”

I stick my tongue out at him, but he’s not looking. “I won’t. I volunteered you for that, anyways.” I turn and head back to Bucky, shrugging slightly. “Should just be a couple more minutes. I think they’ve got the lighting issues mostly worked out.”

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Alright. So – “

“What kind of martial arts do you do?” I gotta get in front of this conversation. I really fucked up the last one, teasing him about sleeping with Clint. Can’t let that happen again.

“What?” He’s frowning at me. Terrific. I can handle frowns.

“You said you’d been doing some martial arts. Yesterday. Which ones?”

He cocks his head, a bit bemused, but replies, “A little of everything. My trainer does MMA, so I do a lot of different things. A lot of Karate, Jujitsu, Muay Thai, Jeet Kun Do.  And boxing.”

“Sweet,” I nod. “I do a little kickboxing, and some jujitsu.”

“Oh, really?” He grins. “That’s… unsurprising, actually. You look like someone who can kick a little ass.”

“Oh, ass-kicking is my specialty,” I nod in agreement. “Just not competitively, because it wouldn’t be fair to the other kids.”

Bucky chuckles and holds out his hands, palms facing me, bending his knees slightly to look me in the eye. “Alright, show me whatcha got.” I smirk and drop into a crouch, fists held loosely in front of me, then give a few quick jabs to each of his hands. “Solid,” he nods. “We should go a few rounds sometime.”

I shrug. “I’m down. I’ll kick your ass any day of the week, man.”

He laughs. “Well, you’ll certainly try.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Fuck try. There is no try. I’ll do it. I’ll actually kick your ass and you’ll actually cry. And you can bank on that, sir.”

That delighted grin is back on his stupidly perfect face and there’s a part of me that would be willing to continue making a complete fool of myself for the remainder of the shoot if it’ll make him keep smiling at me like that. This crush is getting a little unmanageable and I’m already dreading the end of today when we finish the shoot and he goes home and I have to go back to coming into work and not having him there. “I look forward to it,” he teases, then clears his throat. “So. This… anniversary party that the magazine’s throwing. What’s the deal with that?”

I shrug. “It’s the twenty year anniversary of the magazine, and the twentieth anniversary issue happens to be the one that’s gonna have your face on the cover. It’d mean a lot to the boss if you made an appearance, made us look cool.”

He surveys me, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. “And everyone from the magazine’s gonna be there?”

I nod. “Yeah, everyone on the payroll’s like, contractually obligated to show up.”

“Everyone? Wardrobe, makeup, writers, photographers, interns?” he presses, and I feel my stomach do half a flip as my brain rushes to what could be a very exciting conclusion about what he’s actually asking. But he’s not asking that. That’d be ridiculous. Get your head out of your ass, Kate. Bucky Barnes doesn’t actually care about whether you’ll be at the party or not.

“Um, yeah. Pretty much. Everyone I work with will be there. My friend and I are going shopping for dresses on Sunday – she’s convinced she can land a model or an actor or something if she just has the right dress.”

“And you?” he’s grinning outright now, and my mind races for a good response.

“I’m not quite so silly. I know it’s all to do with the shoes,” I flash him a wink, and he gives a dry chuckle. 

“Barnes! We’re good to go,” Clint waves Bucky over, then turns to me. “This is the last set, so you can start packing up all the stuff that needs to go back to the office, I’ve got everything I need right here, so I need you to start loading everything else up. Tomorrow I’ll need you in bright and early to look at the pictures with me.”

I force myself not to sigh in relief. No more dangerous conversations with Bucky, no more staring at his lips. I did it. I survived. And no, I’m not at all disappointed that I won’t see him anymore, because what was gonna come of that anyways? He’s… well, he’s Bucky Freaking Barnes. And I’m Kate Bishop, and I don’t need him. Best case scenario I just don’t make a total fool of myself and he never finds out how disgustingly attracted to him I am. I snap my hand to my forehead in a salute and grin at Clint. “You got it, dude. See you tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

 

“So what do you think?”

I chew on my lip, studying the images intently. Because dammit, I didn’t anticipate the fact that just because Bucky isn’t here today doesn’t mean I’m not gonna spend my entire day staring at him and thinking about him. There are about a hundred prints of his face spread across the table and tacked up onto the wall of Clint’s studio, and we have to choose four to go inside the magazine and one to go on the cover. We’ve got a dozen pictures – our favorites – hanging on the wall in front of us, and it’s taken us three and a half hours to get it narrowed down this far.

Bucky on a motorcycle.

Bucky sprawled across a park bench, reading the newspaper.

Bucky, facing off with a punching bag.

Bucky, a hair tie clamped between his lips as he reaches up to pull his hair into a bun.

Bucky, staring the camera down with those sad, grey-blue eyes.

Bucky in fatigues, one sleeve ripped off to expose his left arm, the injured one. Bucky in a perfectly fitted black sport coat with one silvery sleeve. Bucky doing a one-armed pushup. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. He’s fucking everywhere, and even if these photos weren’t amazing in their own right, they’d still feature him and his eyes and his lips and his hands and his arms. Clint’s outdone himself, though, and he’s rightly proud of his work, so between his pride and my inability to decide whether I prefer the picture that best showcases the depths of Bucky’s soul through his eyes or the one that just catches the glint of one of the scars on his shoulder, or the one that shadows his eyes but really makes his lips stand out, we’re probably going to be here for awhile.

The door to the studio swings open and Jess slinks in with Maria Hill, the editor-in-chief on her heels. “How’s it going, Barton?” Hill wants to know. “What’s my cover for the month?”

“Not just the month,” Jess adds. “The Anniversary Special Edition. And while we’re on the subject, I spoke with James Barnes today, and I think I’ve got him talked into coming to the party.”

Clint snorts. “ _You’ve_ got him talked into coming to the party?”

Jess’ eyes flash to Clint’s face and narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean? And for God’s sake, who did Barnes’ makeup for these? Have they not heard of concealer?” She’s leaning over the table, looking at our prints and frowning at some of the close-ups of Bucky’s face.

I can feel my lips drawing into a tight line and exchange exasperated glances with Clint, who shrugs and responds, “He’s got a lot going on, that guy. We wanted to be able to see all of it.” I lean back against the table and reach for a sip of my coffee, doing my best to bury my expression in my mug.

“These are fantastic, Barton,” Hill’s inspecting the prints hanging on the wall, reaching up to brush her fingers along the ones that appear to be her favorites. “Beautiful.” Her fingers come to rest on one of my favorites, Bucky in the middle of pulling a jacket on, the right sleeve pulled on as he’s just beginning to shrug into the left sleeve, the scars on his shoulder clearly visible; he’s facing just slightly to the side and looking at something a little ways off camera, his hair pulled mostly back into a low ponytail, but with a few thick locks having escaped the tie and hanging down around the edges of his face. Hill taps it once. “This one. For the title page. And the one with that sexy suit with the silver sleeve? I want that one for the cover. It’s perfect. We’ll use all six of these,” she motions to the entire range of photos on the wall. “They’re exactly what I wanted.”

Clint glances up at the one’s she’s chosen and grins. “Hey, you and Katie are totally on the same page, Hill. Katie’ll get those prints turned in right away.”

“Good,” Hill nods decisively. “Your photos are the last thing we need for the Anniversary Edition. And make copies for me, so I can get a couple blown up for the party.”

“You got it,” I smile at Hill and make a note to send her copies on a notepad on the table. “I’ll have it to you by the end of the day.”

“Perfect,” Hill smiles, turning on her heels and leaving the way she came, Jess scampering to keep up behind her.


	6. Chapter 6

# 6

I smooth the skirt of my new dress (black and purple, obviously, and slinky and sexy and yet, somehow, still classy – is this what Ciara feels like all the time? It’s nice), and flash a flirty smile at the waiter as I take a glass of champagne from his tray.

Clint’s across the room with Cherry draped over his arm, and I exchange a knowing glance with her as if to say, _See? I told you he’d call._ Clint’s hardly a poster boy for treating a girl how she oughta be treated, but he’s never an asshole on purpose. They’re chatting with Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff, old friends of Clint’s and New York’s most beloved power couple. Natasha is one of Clint’s best friends, someone he’s worked with extensively, and between her dance history and the fact that her paramour was childhood friends with one James Barnes, she’d been the connection that _Gloss_ needed to get the cover shoot with Bucky for the anniversary edition.

“When do you think Barnes will get here?” Cassie has sidled up to me and is looking simultaneously adorable and edgy in a flowing, sleeveless red and black number with her hair tumbling in soft blonde ringlets around her face. I have yet to master looking cute and edgy at the same time, but I also don’t look like an age-progressed image of JonBenet Ramsey, so I can usually do one or the other, but not both. Is that cool? That may have been in poor taste.

I shrug, as if Cassie's question has not been the only thing running through my mind all night (it has). “He’s the guest of honor, he can get here half an hour before everything shuts down and still be good. Plus, he doesn’t really seem like the kind of dude who’d wanna spend a lot of time at a party with big-ass pictures of his face hanging around,” I jerk my chin at the life-size prints of Clint’s pictures that have been placed strategically around the room, along with blown-up pictures of the best covers from the past twenty years. I hate them a little bit, because they’re tacky, sure, but also because every time my eye catches one there’s a split second where I actually think it’s him in the room, and my stomach does a little flip and then I’m disappointed and then I hate myself for being so fucking lame and obsessive with a guy I’ve literally known for half a week.

Cassie lets out a very soft, very high-pitched gasp under her breath, her eye evidently having been caught by something more interesting while I was castigating myself for having a crush on a supermodel. I glance over at her and see her frozen, eyes wide, staring at the door.

Where Bucky Barnes has just walked in.

He’s dressed in black – black pants, black shirt, black tie, and a perfectly-tailored deep maroon jacket, and he looks like he’s maybe the absolute pinnacle of human achievement. I swear my heart actually stops beating when I see him. Ugh. He stops to greet Hill and nods at Clint, and in the process he glances my way and catches me staring and flashes me a grin so cool and so damn sexy that I have to drop my gaze like the idiot fangirl that I apparently am. I down the rest of my champagne and turn to find a waiter so I can get rid of the glass, then take a deep breath and hazard another glance. He’s still looking at me, and I can’t decide if this is a good thing or not, but I shoot him the easiest smile I can muster before I turn away again.

“He’s talking to Steve Rogers, god, it’s too much beautiful for one room,” Cassie breathes, appropriately awed by the sight of Bucky and Steve standing together, casual in their perfection. I’ve located a waiter and move toward him, setting my now empty glass on his tray and trying to decide if I need another. Probably shouldn’t. I take one anyways.

“Ohmygod, he’s dancing with Natasha Romanoff, didn’t they do a ballet together a long time ago?”

Well now I have to look. They haven’t danced together since I was in high school, and I know this isn’t ballet or anything, especially not when they’re just dancing to some Usher song that’s as old as the tour of _La Bayader_ I’d seen them in, but there’s something absolutely mesmerizing about watching them move together, the way they anticipate each other’s movements and complement them perfectly. I can’t tear my eyes away, but to be fair, neither can anyone else in the room.

The song ends too soon, and Natasha glides back to Steve, who murmurs something to her that makes her laugh and Clint roll his eyes and it’s almost therapeutic, watching these beautiful people be happy and beautiful together, like some corny movie that I’d never actually pay to see but will happily and with only a modicum of embarrassment sit through the entirety of if it happens to be on TV, and for a moment, I lose track of Bucky completely. I almost get it, the weird obsession with celebrities that we have as a society, there’s just something about some people that makes it seem like an accomplishment to be in the same room with them. Nat and Steve are those kind of people.

“He’s coming, hescominghescoming,” Cassie is muttering under her breath, to me, to herself, I’m not sure, but after the split second it takes me to realize who she’s talking about, I turn back to her and hiss, “Well be cool, then!”

I finish the last of my second glass of champagne and set it down on the counter behind me, painfully aware of the heat pooling in my face, as always happens anytime I drink anything even remotely alcoholic.

And then he’s there, materializing just behind me as I turn around, smirking down at me with his hair falling down into his eyes and shit but he looks good and smells better and I wonder for a second if he’d mind if I crawled inside his jacket and just stayed there forever. “My god, you do wear the hell out of a suit,” is the first thing that pops out of my mouth, and honestly, it probably could have been worse. I could have actually asked to live inside his jacket, so I just leave the suit comment there.

“Will you dance with me, please?” He’s leaning down to murmur into my ear, and before I even have a chance to answer, he’s sliding his right hand into mine and pulling me toward the dance floor. He pulls me close and slips his left arm around my waist; it settles on the small of my back and I have to fight back a shiver as the slightly cooler skin of his hand comes to rest on the open patch of skin that the cutout in my dress leaves exposed.

“You look incredible tonight,” those lips are curving softly upwards as he looks down at me and I can feel my breaths coming a bit shorter. “You looked incredible last time I saw you, too.”

I give a soft laugh and force my gaze away from his lips and up to his eyes. Not a vast improvement, in terms of the level of distraction they create. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

He shakes his head, eyes locked on mine. “Just the really beautiful ones – well, one.”

I snort, which I realize is unladylike and also not particularly romantic, but just give me a break, alright? “Steve told me you used to be a real ladies’ man. I’m seeing that right now.”

He chuckles and tightens his hold around my waist, the fingers of his injured hand skimming lightly along the skin of my back. “I can be pretty good with women. Do you think I could maybe harness those powers and focus them all on one girl? Do you think that might work?” Um, definitely. I’m legitimately having difficulty breathing properly with his arms around me and his eyes holding mine, and I have never lost my cool so thoroughly over a guy before in my life.

“Well first of all, I think that would be wildly unfair to the young lady in question. You’ve got entirely too much firepower to be unleashing it all on one poor sucker,” I fix him with my most serious glare, then shrug. “But I guess it depends on what kind of girl she is.”

“Well she doesn’t really strike me as a poor sucker.” He thinks for a moment, then says, “She’s smart. Tough. Independent. Funny. Talented.”

My eyebrows shoot up, and I smirk. “Oof, those girls are usually pretty tough to hook.”

He nods. “I’ve noticed. But I think if I focused all my skills on her, I might actually be able to get her to go out with me. Maybe.”

I lift one shoulder again to indicate my apparent disinterest in the topic. “Only one way to find out.”

He considers this for a moment, then nods decisively. “You’re right. So… Listen. I made a couple of calls last night. Decisions happened over dinner. I can’t tell you about the art of the trade, how the game was played, how the sausage got made, you’ll just have to assume that it happened, since no one else was in the room where it happened.” My jaw drops, and I let out a half-delighted laugh. Be still, my besotted heart, Bucky Barnes is quoting Hamilton at me. Bucky smirks down at me and continues, “But long story short, I am now in possession of two tickets to a certain play that you mentioned you were having a hard time getting into. It’s a week from tonight, and I’d love to take you with me, maybe grab dinner beforehand. Is that something I might be able to talk you into?” Hoooooly shit. This is happening. Bucky Barnes just asked me out.

I stare at him for a long second, then shake my head slightly and reply, “Uh, yes please. Jesus. Hamilton and dinner with Bucky Barnes. What part of that do you imagine I’d need talking into? I don’t know how to say no to this.” He grins, and I add, “But when I tell this story I’m gonna say you had to beg, just so I seem a little cooler.”

He laughs for real this time. “You don’t need to seem cooler. I’m already out of my league.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Shut up. I already said I’d go out with you, so you don’t have to say shit like that anymore.”

“I do if it’s true – “

“Seriously, shut up. Save it for next week,” I order, moving closer to him and sliding my arms around his neck as he links his fingers behind my back, trapping me up against his chest. After a long moment, my brain faintly registers that the song that’s playing is different than the one that was going when we started dancing, but Bucky shows no signs of loosening his grip around my waist and I’m perfectly content to stay here for the foreseeable future. I spare a quick glance over Bucky’s shoulder.

Clint’s staring at us from across the room. Well, so are Billy, Teddy, Cassie, Cherry, and Jess, from all of their respective spots around the room. And a lot of women who seem a bit put out that Bucky Barnes’ only dance of the night that hasn’t been with Natasha is with Derek Bishop’s rebel daughter. But as we exit the dance floor a few minutes later, it’s Clint who grabs us. “I need you two.” He grabs our arms and steers us back to his table. “I have an idea. But I need the two of you for it.”


	7. Epilogue

# Epilogue

_8 Months Later_

They’re possibly the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen in my life.

Well, the most beautiful things with my face in them, anyways. Not that my face is in all of them. A lot of them are zoomed in so the focal point of the photo is the action that’s being performed, rather than our faces. Those are my favorites.

Bucky and I, sparring in the boxing ring. Me, landing a kick on his ribs. Stretching side-by-side on the hardwood floor of the dance studio. Bucky, adjusting my form for the plié. Lifting me above his head. Me, one hand pressed against Bucky’s diaphragm as I teach him how to breathe through his shot. The two of us, taping up our hands before we spar. Me, showing him how to make a flower chain in the park. Him, teaching me to write my name in Russian. Both of us, side by side doing our sun salutations. Me, adjusting the silver sleeve of his jacket. Bucky, hair falling into his face, smiling down at me as I feed Lucky a treat. Bucky and I, pressed close together on the dance floor, expressions hidden but clearly completely caught up in each other.

“He never smiles,” a voice breathes next to me. “Not for shoots. And rarely outside of shoots.”

I glance at Natasha in her slinky black slip dress and crocheted wrap and shrug. “Well, a lot of these are candids. Clint’s kinda sneaky sometimes. And also a bit of a creeper.” She looks incredible, her hair flowing loose around her shoulders and topped off with a vintage black fedora. I can’t even tell if she’s wearing makeup, beyond maybe a coat of mascara and a soft pink lip. She’s unreal.

She sniffs and allows half a grin to flash across her face. “Well, he is the best. He always gets his shot.”

“Miss Bishop. This is pretty amazing stuff. Congratulations,” Steve Rogers approaches us, sticking out his hand to shake mine while he slides the other around Natasha’s waist. He’s all manly muscle and sexy square jawlines, stunning as always in his near-perfection. Steve and Natasha as a couple is the most beautiful and terrifying thing that’s ever happened to the world, I’m pretty sure.

I shake my head, smiling. “It was all Clint. Bucky and I didn’t do that much.”

“He’s been dying to do something like this,” Natasha nods. “But you two… He’s been trying to do this show for years. He shot me, Bobbi, Steve, himself. It never came together before he used you and Bucky, though. He’s over the moon, and you made it happen. You’ve meant only good things for him, Kate. Keep it up.”

Rogers is examining the photo we’re standing in front of, eyebrows creased in his perfect forehead. “Huh. Bucky never smiles. How’d Barton get him to smile?”

“It’s a candid,” Natasha reaches into his coat and pulls a sticker sheet from his inner coat pocket. “Clint didn’t get him to smile, Kate did.”

Steve looks back to me as Natasha places their red sticker next to the frame, a strange expression on his face. “I gotta admit, I was a little thrown when Buck said he was dating Derek Bishop’s twenty-year-old daughter – “

“Twenty-one,” I correct. “Almost twenty-two.”

“Twenty-one, sorry. In any case, I think I’m starting to see your draw for him, Miss Bishop. You’re a pretty remarkable young woman. Whatever it is you do, for him, for Barton, keep doing it.”

Ohhhh, shit. Steve Rogers did not just say that about me. “I – oh, that’s – I don’t – “ I stammer, “Um, thanks.” This is maybe the best day of my life ever. I gotta bow out before I say something to ruin it. “I’m gonna go look some more. Thanks, for the ego boost and all that.”

I leave them standing there and move around the corner to examine some photos I haven’t seen yet. There’s an entire series of Bucky and I doing some weird mirroring exercise Clint asked us to do, and even though it felt kinda weird when we were doing it, I have to admit the photos came out pretty damn gorgeous.

Hands slide around my waist from behind and I stiffen in surprise, but relax into the newcomer’s arms as the familiar, comforting feel of these particular hands sets in. “You look altogether too perfect this evening to be left alone,” Bucky murmurs into my ear, and I shudder slightly as his lips brush against my ear.

“Don’t leave me alone, then,” I lean my head back against his shoulder, placing the hand unburdened by champagne over his to hold them in place.

He presses a light kiss to the corner of my jaw. “I don’t intend to.”

I turn in his arms, slipping my arms around his neck and pressing a soft kiss to his lips – God, those lips. It still blows me away sometimes that I get to just kiss them whenever I feel like it. Sometimes I do it just because I can. Kiss him, I mean. He’ll be mid-word or half-asleep or wiping mustard off his face and I’ll just get this feeling that I have to kiss him, and then I will, and he always gets this adorably confused look on his face, and then those lips pull up into that smile and it just makes everything better. Everything. Better. When he smiles. He’s magic, I swear. I don’t say any of this out loud, though. What I do say out loud is, “You’re all stubbly today.” I touch his jawline, the faint stubble there scraping lightly against my fingers.

“I know, I need to shave,” he looks a bit abashed, raising a hand to rub uncomfortably at his chin.

I press a little closer against him, humming contentedly, and kiss him again. “Alternatively, you could just… not shave. I think it’s sexy.”

One of his eyebrows twitches upwards as his arms tighten around me. “Oh, really?”

I nod. “So hot.”

A slow grin spreads across his face and his eyes twinkle as he leans down as if to kiss me, then at the last second turns aside and rubs the scruff on his jaw against my neck. I squeal and pull back half-heartedly, laughing. “Bucky!”

He chuckles as my hand flashes up to catch his chin and hold it steady while I stretch up onto my toes for the kiss I thought I was getting, but we’re rudely interrupted by a series of clicks and flashes as some paparazzo happens upon us. “Hi, Kate. Hi, James. So you’re official now, huh? How’s it going? Give us a kiss for the camera, huh?”

Bucky and I freeze, share a look, and step apart slowly. The pap clicks his tongue, “Nothing? Come on, gimme something.”

“Hey, what the hell, man?” We’re saved as Clint steps up to us and gives the guy a light shove. “They’re my subjects, I’m the only one who gets to shoot ‘em. If you’re gonna be here, you can either buy a picture or fuck right off.”

The guy glares at Clint as he shoos him out of the room, but turns back to Bucky and I and calls as he goes, “Any big news? Engaged? Pregnant? Dropped the L-bomb yet? Moving in together?” And then he’s gone, around the corner and presumably out the door to sell his shots of us and probably Steve and Natasha and Bobbi and Thor and Stark and Banner to whatever trashy tabloid will take them.

We are, not that it’s any of his business. Moving in together. I’m pretty excited. I get to quit living on my dad’s dime and start living on my boyfriend’s. I joke that Bucky’s my Sugar Daddy, and he smiles and knows he’s not, because the magazine hired me on as Clint’s assistant about a week after Bucky’s shoot hits stands in the anniversary edition. As it turns out, record sales are pretty handy for moving from intern to employee, so Bucky has basically been the best thing that’s ever happened to me in pretty much every corny-ass sense of the phrase.

He says the same about me, when I make this observation out loud.

And you know, I really think he means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!! Please leave feedback, it means alot to me. I've got some other things in the works, so keep your eyes on this space if you're interested. Some more Marvel, some Game of Thrones, if y'all are into that. In any case, thanks to those of you who stuck with this story, I hope you liked it!


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